


A Trail Of Bubbles

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-29
Updated: 2005-10-29
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Neville...





	A Trail Of Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

This fic contains necrophilia. If that is not your thing, please read no further.  
A/N: Written for xylodemon, because by stating she couldn't - and didn't - want to ever see Neville having sex, she challenged me. The dead body is there as a sweetener. Looked over with love by darkasphodel (and I know you hate Neville too, so thankyou ♥).

 

Neville runs his tongue over his teeth, nervous in the shadows. The others went out hours ago, leaving Harry behind. He takes a deep breath, padding up the stairs of the dark old house.

The door creaks as he eases it open, squinting his eyes closed, terrified, illogically, of rousing the still figure on the bed.

He crosses the floor slowly, eyes fixed to the reddened scar, the spill of dark hair across the pillow case. The bed sags beneath him as he sits next to Harry, clutching one cool hand in his dirty fingers.

This isn't right. Harry should be blinking by now, voice fugged with sleep, scrabbling for his glasses. Dropping his mouth to Harry's, Neville inhales the cool scent of decay, the odour of despair as he slips his tongue between Harry's unmoving teeth.

The tears slip down Neville's cheeks as he blinks them away, fogging his vision. He pins Harry's unwieldy arms above him on the bed, the texture of his skin slippery and cold.

This is not how Neville wants to remember him, he doesn't want to do this, but from somewhere inside him, something is pushing him on. Maybe he's only asleep, the voice prods. I'm sure you know how to wake him.

Neville unbuttons Harry's shirt, carefully, laying it open on either side of his narrow chest. The few dark hairs he licks at carefully, trying to block the rising stench of wrongness.

Harry should be giggling under him by now, should be laughing and pushing him off. Neville, what are you doing? he will say, and they'll wrestle with each other until they fall off the bed, landing with a heavy thud on the floor, and Mrs Weasley will call up the stairs, "What are you doing, boys?" and they'll be too breathless with laughter to reply.

But Harry doesn't twitch under him, no shiver of indrawn breath. No hint that Harry is still there, and Neville wants to pinch him, wants to make him hurt. How dare he leave Neville alone? He wrenches at Harry's nipples with his fingers, teeth biting at his collarbone.

Neville can feel his knees clenching against Harry's hips, his teeth gritting together. The dim light of the room seems suddenly too bright, and he closes his eyes, trailing his fingers under Harry's waistband as he rolls to lie next to the other boy.

He remembers the last time they did this, his fingers trembling around Harry's cock. He was ashamed of his chubbiness, his plump fingers looking odd next to the slim elegance of Harry's hands, but Harry had seized his hand, hips bucking into it, breathing faster and faster, and when Harry had licked it clean, Neville had never liked his hands more.

His hands enclose the damp span of Harry's hips, tears muffled in Harry's hair. He rubs against the fabric of his trousers, the fragments of pleasure seeming somehow wrong, dirtying his grief.

He knows he's been damaged somehow, put back together wrong on the battlefield, because he can't stop this slow rock of his hips, the grind of his erection into Harry's moist trousers, the mud and dirt flaking off to surround them on the bedspread.

And when he comes, sticky and hot in his trousers, when he bites down on Harry's bare shoulder and the taste of corruption and putrescence fills his mouth, the scales fall from his eyes.

He staggers back from the bed, retching and spitting, trying to clear his mouth of the taste of rot, the room swirling around him. Afterwards, he can't remember scrubbing his skin until it's red raw, trying to drown himself in the shower, the water bubbling through his nose.

It's blood-warm, people-warm, not the chill of Harry, lying in state upstairs.

A trail of bubbles marks Neville's descent.

Fin


End file.
